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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679514">Kill of the Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverlyObsessed223/pseuds/OverlyObsessed223'>OverlyObsessed223</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Together We'll Be, Forever You'll See [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Kidnapping</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:15:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,541</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverlyObsessed223/pseuds/OverlyObsessed223</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello, little one,” she greets him softly. She takes a moment to glance around at the barren, empty, grey walls of the mausoleum. Oh, how The Handler hates the color grey. “This place is scary, isn’t it, darling?”</p><p>Wordlessly, the little boy nods tearfully, and a drop of water spills from his left eye. The Handler gives him her best sympathetic look and reaches out to wipe the tear away with her thumb. She doesn’t blame the child—this place is awful. </p><p>The Handler rescinds her hand and makes him an offer he would surely never refuse in a million years. </p><p>“Would you like to leave?”</p><p> </p><p>The Handler sees a glaring error in Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ parenting style and pounces.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Handler &amp; Klaus Hargreeves, The Handler &amp; Lila Pitts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Together We'll Be, Forever You'll See [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2102061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>241</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Kill of the Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I can’t believe I’m finally posting this. </p><p>I’ve been working on this story since last September—it started out as a complete 15k one-shot, but as I kept rewriting and workshopping I realized I just couldn’t fit the entire story I wanted to tell into a single work. I then scrapped the one-shot entirely, and have been working on all of the parts of this series ever since. Long story short, this story has been in the works for awhile, a labor of love, and I’m super excited to finally kick it off. I hope you guys come to enjoy it as much as I’m enjoying writing it. </p><p>This is just the beginning.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Handler despises the color grey. </p><p>It’s the only color she actively goes out of her way to avoid. She likes to think of herself as a very colorful person, both in fashion taste and personality, and so usually she can work to pull any shade of the rainbow off. In her closet, she has so much red, so many blues, even a few oranges and yellows, but there is not a speck of grey anywhere to be seen. She’ll wear a stark white dress and pitch-black heels, but The Handler refuses to even consider wearing or looking at a mixture of those two colors. </p><p>So as she gracefully walks down the street of the drab, lifeless, boring city Sir Reginald Hargreeves calls home, she finds herself constantly turning up her nose at her surroundings. In her bright green dress with red polka dots, she stands out against the grey backdrop of the many dull buildings lining the street, which include a bank, a pawn shop, and many apartment buildings that look almost identical. She draws the eyes of many humans who are going about their daily lives, including a sketchy looking man loitering on the street corner who is ogling her—of course, she immediately scoffs at him as she passes him by, unwilling to give him any other reaction than that. </p><p>To say she hates it here would be an understatement. </p><p>It’s not every day that The Handler finds herself out in the field. In all honesty, she’s never particularly enjoyed visiting the human world, finding it terribly imperfect and behind on the times, so she’s only ever gone out of necessity for work. However, in the last year, she’s found she has even less time to make these kinds of trips—nobody ever cared to tell her that raising a small child is <em> hard. </em>Though her adoptive daughter does make for many great excuses, so she supposes it’s not all bad. </p><p>Unfortunately, not even Lila could excuse her from her current task, but she’s deemed this trip to be of utmost importance, so she’s willing to power through. </p><p>She doesn’t remember the city being so <em> big. </em>The Handler comes to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk, unbothered by the looks the humans are giving her for being in their way. She glances to her right, and then her left. She swears she’s in the right place, but for some reason, her desired destination is nowhere to be found. Utterly stumped, she gives an annoyed sigh and settles her gaze on the tire shop just a few steps away from where she’s standing. </p><p>The Handler takes a deep breath, puts on her most dazzling smile, and enters the shop. It’s empty, save for a single man behind the counter flipping through a magazine with a big red car on the cover. When the bell above the door rings, signaling her presence, he glances up with a look of surprise on his face, as if she’s the first person he’s seen all day. Judging by the cobwebs covering fully stocked shelves, she wouldn’t be shocked if she is his first customer. </p><p>The man gingerly closes the magazine and sets it down on the table behind him. </p><p>“Welcome in, ma’am,” the man says, pressing both palms flat against the counter as he watches her with eager eyes. “What can I do for ya?”</p><p>The Handler smiles, setting her briefcase down onto the ground and lifting the veil that was previously shielding her upper face.</p><p>“I need directions,” she says, and the man’s face falls by a fraction at the knowledge that she’s unlikely to buy something from him. “I’m not from around here, as you can probably tell.”</p><p>The corner of the man’s mouth ticks upwards. “Yeah, I figured. Where’re you trying to go, newcomer?”</p><p>The Handler reaches up and tucks a blonde curl behind her ear, tilting her head as the man waits expectantly for an answer.</p><p>“The city cemetery,” she tells him.</p><p>The man’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he gives her a once over.</p><p>“The… cemetery?” </p><p>“That <em> is </em> what I said,” The Handler nods assuredly. “Now, do you know where it is?”</p><p>The man stares at her for a few beats more before coming to his senses. “Yeah, yeah—it’s just a few blocks from here. Keep going west, and once you get to Hargreeves mansion it’s right down the street. You do know what Hargreeves mansion looks like, correct?”</p><p>The Handler feels her smile tighten. </p><p>“Of course,” she says. “Who doesn’t?” </p><p>The man simply shrugs in response.</p><p>The Handler has all the information she needs, but before she leaves the shop she buys a candy bar. Not because she feels bad for the man behind the counter, but because she loves chocolate, and she expects she may not have time to eat in the next few hours. Candy bar in one hand and briefcase in the other, she steps outside and continues on her journey. The sun is beginning to set behind the city buildings, and with a quick check of her watch, she finds she’s not running even a minute behind schedule. </p><p>So, she takes her sweet time walking. The sound of her heels clicking against the pavement echo loudly through the streets, which are emptying of people by the very minute. The sun continues to set rapidly, revealing a glowing moon and clusters of bright, twinkling stars. In all, it’s a beautiful night—she quite wishes she was back home in her large backyard to enjoy it along with a glass of wine. </p><p>Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ mansion is impossible to miss, given that it takes up an entire block of the city. It’s one of the darkest buildings in the entire city, which is fitting given its owner is one of the most lifeless men to ever exist. As The Handler passes it by, she notes that almost all of the lights in the mansion are turned out, save for a few windows on the upper far side. </p><p>It’s hard to believe that seven children live there, but she’s aware that Sir Reginald likely runs a very tight ship. It’s quite the opposite of her parenting strategy, which is to give the small, sticky girl anything that will make her happy. The Handler smirks to herself as she continues to walk along the sidewalk—Hargreeves was smart, seeking out many of the special children which were born a little over four years ago. </p><p>But he’s made a very grim mistake with at least one of the children, a big mistake that will most certainly ruin any plan he might have to save the world. </p><p>Just as the man from the tire shop had said, the entrance to the city cemetery stands tall a few blocks down from Hargreeves mansion. As far as she’s aware, the cemetery hasn’t been used for burials in quite some time—they filled it up quickly, long ago. At this time of night, the gates <em> should </em>be chained shut to prevent teenagers from sneaking in and vandalizing the place. Lucky for her, the cemetery gates have been opened wide, the chains discarded into the dead grass a few feet away. </p><p>The Handler checks her watch once more. She’s right on time, which is backed up by the sun having fully set behind the horizon, leaving behind nothing but shadows and the trees illuminated by the soft glow of the moon overhead. There’s a thin dirt path that winds through the cemetery, and with another deep breath, she steps through the entrance and begins to walk down it. </p><p>Despite how close the cemetery is to the city, there’s a blanket of eerie silence that seems to be blocking out any sounds at all. The only noises to be heard are of the wind rustling the leaves of the almost dead trees and the chirping of crickets alongside the path. The Handler’s heels sink into the damp dirt path she’s attempting to navigate, and she feels her heartbreak when she glances down and realizes her prized pink heels are now caked in mud. Before she begins walking again, she takes a moment to close her eyes and calm herself. </p><p><em> This is important </em>, she reminds herself. </p><p>She keeps moving, and five minutes later, she finally reaches the end of the pathway. She’s met with a large mausoleum that locks from the outside, and if she was a regular human she suspects she might be intimidated. Instead, she simply sets down her briefcase—as she does so, she makes a mental note to have the HQ custodial department clean the mud and grime off of it when she gets back—steps forward and unhooks the stone bar that’s locking the mausoleum door shut. She has to tug fairly hard to get the door open, given that it’s extremely heavy, but it’s nothing she can’t handle. </p><p>The Handler is met with nothing but darkness inside. She reaches into her dress pocket and pulls out a flashlight, flipping it on and illuminating the inside of the mausoleum with bright light. She proceeds to swipe the light from corner to corner, and in doing so, she finds exactly what she came here for. </p><p>In the back left corner of the dark, cold mausoleum is a small boy curled up in a ball. </p><p>The boy is just about Lila’s size, perhaps a bit taller, but still clearly the same age. His brown curls are damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead and falling halfway into his eyes. His hazel eyes are filled with tears which would have been shed had The Handler not entered when she did, and the tears he <em> has </em> cried are glistening on his tiny cheeks. His small hands are pressed against his ears, and he looks more terrified than she’s ever seen any child—or adult, for that matter—look. </p><p><em> Perfect </em>. </p><p>As The Handler steps inside the mausoleum, the boy gazes up at her with both confusion and hope in his innocent, fear-filled face. He doesn’t look away from her as she approaches him, and that tells her that this will be as easy as the first time she did this. She puts on her kindest, most comforting smile, and crouches down so she’s at eye level with him.</p><p>“Hello, little one,” she greets him softly. She takes a moment to glance around at the barren, empty, grey walls of the mausoleum. Oh, how The Handler hates the color grey. “This place is scary, isn’t it, darling?”</p><p>Wordlessly, the little boy nods tearfully, and a drop of water spills from his left eye. The Handler gives him her best sympathetic look and reaches out to wipe the tear away with her thumb. She doesn’t blame the child—this place is <em> awful </em>. </p><p>The Handler rescinds her hand and makes him an offer he would surely never refuse in a million years. </p><p>“Would you like to leave?” she asks him with a curious tilt of her head. The boy nods, this time more fiercely. Feeling happy with her success, she spreads her arms wide, beckoning for him to come to her. The boy, who seems to be the type to never turn down affection, scrambles up from where he’s sitting and practically throws himself into her arms, cheek pressed against her thin shoulder. The Handler holds him tight, and murmurs into his ear, “okay, little one, let’s go home.”</p><p>The Handler lifts him with ease before turning around and carrying the boy out of the mausoleum, and the boy gives a tiny sigh of relief upon feeling the nightly breeze. She’s sure that after having been in <em> there </em>for who knows how long, the outdoors must feel amazing. Once she reaches the briefcase in the middle of the clearing, she sets the boy down onto his feet and crouches down yet again. </p><p>“What’s your name, dear?” The Handler asks, because as much as she knows about the child’s powers, she doesn’t know shit about the actual boy. </p><p>“Number Four,” the boy tells her without missing a single beat, “but my siblings just call me Four.”</p><p>The Handler’s eyebrows furrow together at that. </p><p>“Oh, well that simply cannot do,” she tuts with a shake of her head. Then, looking deep into his eyes, she says, “would you like a <em> real </em>name?”</p><p>The boy hesitates for a moment as if he isn’t even sure what a “real” name is, but then he eagerly nods his head up and down. </p><p>“Perfect,” The Handler says with a smile. </p><p>“What’s your name?” Four suddenly questions and The Handler realizes she has yet to introduce herself. </p><p>“You, my darling, may call me Mother,” she says, and Four’s eyes widen with wonder and amazement at the idea of having someone to call Mother. </p><p>The Handler grabs the handle of the briefcase and tilts it towards her person as she carefully slides each number on the lock into place. Then, she looks back up at little Number Four and holds out a perfectly manicured hand, the same warm smile on her red painted lips. Four puts his tiny hand into hers, and she curls her fingers around his hand, her grip firm but gentle. </p><p>She watches as Four looks back at the briefcase, probably wondering what exactly it is, his eyes big with curiosity. If he hadn’t looked away, perhaps he would have noticed that the kind smile on his new mother’s face is slowly morphing into one of triumph, the warm twinkle in her eyes disappearing, replaced with pure ambition. </p><p>The Handler clicks the briefcase open, and she and little Number Four disappear in a flash of blue. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sir Reginald Hargreeves returns to the mausoleum later that night, only to find the door to the mausoleum open and no one inside. Perhaps Number Four found a way to pry the door open and had ran away, given that the boy is nowhere in sight. He grunts tiredly at the inconvenience, deciding to go back to the mansion and wait for the boy to turn up. </p><p>He never does. </p><p>So Sir Reginald cuts his losses and hopes this slip up won’t bring about the end of the world or anything. </p><p>After all, Number Four has much potential. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Klaus, little one, what is your favorite flavor of ice cream?”</p><p>The Handler patiently waits in the kitchen next to the open freezer as little Klaus looks up from his coloring book—he’s currently using a yellow crayon to color in Belle’s dress—and makes eye contact with her. Klaus pauses his coloring and frowns, and The Handler would guess that his mind is probably moving a mile per minute. It seems like a simple enough question, but Klaus seems to struggle with it a lot, which makes The Handler wonder if he’s even <em> had </em> ice cream before. She wouldn’t put it past Sir Hargreeves to refuse to allow any kind of treats in his home, and she’s fully prepared to use that to her advantage if she finds that’s the case. </p><p>Klaus’ silent shrug gives her all the answers she needs. </p><p>“Well, I suppose we will have to try them all before you find your favorite flavor,” The Handler says cheerfully, reaching into the freezer and pulling out a tub of vanilla ice cream. Her blonde curls bounce up and down off of her shoulders as she moves around the kitchen—she’s wearing a purple dress with white polka dots today, and her dress swishes around her legs as she moves. She grabs two bowls from the cabinet and sets them onto the counter, scooping a large amount of ice cream into both of the bowls. </p><p>The Handler carries both bowls over to the table, nudging the Disney Princesses coloring book little Lila graciously gave to her new brother as a welcome home gift and setting the large portion of ice cream in front of him. Then, she sets the other bowl in the spot on Klaus’ right. “Lila, come eat your dessert, darling!”</p><p>Lila skips into the kitchen, her face lighting up when she sees the open tub of ice cream on the counter. She climbs into her chair, grabbing the spoon that’s resting in front of her and using it to scoop up so much ice cream that it won’t all fit into her mouth. The Handler sits down in the chair across from them, beaming as Lila says “yummy” from behind her mouthful of ice cream. </p><p>Young children are so easily pleased. </p><p>Klaus, who has been eyeing his sister the entire time, glances down at this own bowl of ice cream and promptly copies his sister. The Handler watches as the small boy eats a spoonful of ice cream—his eyes practically bug out of his head when he does. Upon realizing how good the treat in front of him is, Klaus begins shoveling spoonful after spoonful of ice cream into his face until the bowl is empty. Lila starts licking her bowl, but Klaus seems to decide against that—The Handler wouldn’t be surprised to find that Sir Hargreeves is still in his head, keeping her little one from living his absolute best life. </p><p>It’s been one week since The Handler walked through the front door of their moderately sized suburban home with Klaus in tow. Upon his arrival, she’s showered her new child with everything he could ever possibly want—a new name, a bedroom which is filled with every toy imaginable including race cars, action figures, and sports balls, and treats and desserts for days. Though, she’s found Klaus on multiple occasions gazing into Lila’s room at her dress up chest and large dollhouse. Thankfully, Lila doesn’t mind him playing with her, as long as he does what she says at all times. Klaus doesn’t show any signs of being bothered by the caveat. It’s come to The Handler’s attention that Klaus is a follower, not a leader.</p><p>That should end up working out nicely, The Handler muses to herself.</p><p>Pretty soon after finishing her ice cream, Lila scampers out of the kitchen and back to her room, leaving Klaus and The Handler alone at the table. Klaus, however, makes no move to leave and instead is simply staring down into his empty bowl. He looks troubled, and The Handler frowns because that deeply concerns her. She <em> hates </em>when either of her little ones is troubled.</p><p>“What’s the matter, little one?” The Handler asks him, her tone gentle and kind as she always keeps it. Klaus hesitates, opening his mouth but no words come out. “It’s alright darling, go on, tell Mother what’s wrong.”</p><p>Klaus glances up at her, studying her with a level of intensity she wasn’t sure he was capable of reaching. </p><p>Then, he speaks. </p><p>“Will I ever see my brothers and sisters again?” </p><p>The question is so innocent, but it strikes The Handler’s core, forcing her spine to straighten as she absorbs the blow. She never expected for the child to care about the other children left behind in Sir Reginald Hargreeves mansion—she’s quite honestly shocked to even hear him refer to them as his siblings. The Handler swallows thickly, continuing to smile even when her insides are souring by the second. </p><p>“No, little one,” The Handler admits. </p><p>Klaus’ face falls and twists as if he’s mere moments from crying. </p><p>“Why not?” Klaus’ voice is no louder than a whisper—he sounds genuinely saddened by this development. </p><p>The Handler sighs heavily, trying to find the strength to remain empathetic. </p><p>“Because, darling, your old… <em> family— </em> if that’s what you called them—isn’t a part of your life anymore,” she explains softly, reaching across the table to cover his hand with her own. “And really, they weren’t even your family. The place I rescued you from was <em> horrible, </em> and now that I’ve saved you, you’ll be <em> so </em>happy.”</p><p>Klaus is frowning unsurely, and so The Handler continues trying to convince him of her truths. </p><p>“Klaus, little one, in your old life, everything was fake—your name, your identity, your relationships with the other people in that house,” The Handler says, and the creases in Klaus’ face slowly begin to ease away. “Now, everything you have is real. You have a real name, a real mother and sister, a real place in this world.”</p><p>The Handler squeezes his hand comfortingly. </p><p>“This is your <em> real </em> life, little one. You’re finally home.”</p><p>And with that, the troubled look on Klaus’ face goes away completely.</p><p>She tucks him into bed that night, and every night after that, each time taking care to switch on the nightlight and fairy light lining his bedroom walls. He doesn’t immediately stop talking about his old life, but as the days turn into weeks which turn into years, the times he mentions his former siblings or father get less and less frequent. It’s not until one day when a little five-year-old Klaus tells The Handler that he <em> loves her so much </em> with pure admiration filling his eyes does she realize she has won in the best way possible.</p><p>The Hargreeves leave his heart, and not long after that, his mind. </p><p>And with that, sweet, powerful, Klaus is The Handler’s little boy, now and forever.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Y'all, I love The Handler. She's so much fun, and a joy to write. </p><p>The first chapter of the next work should be up within the week. </p><p>Thoughts? Opinions? Share 'em if you so desire!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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